


Night Guard's Bluff

by StoryCloud



Series: Paranoid Games [1]
Category: Five Nights at Freddy's
Genre: AU, Canon Divergence, Gen, Hallucinations, Maybe - Freeform, Mystery, Paranoia, Plushies, Post-Canon, and instead of hitting the ball you're calling it, basically a game of ping pong ball except with terrifying animatronics, first location, or blind man's bluff, these tags are garbage
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-29
Updated: 2016-10-29
Packaged: 2018-08-27 15:57:33
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,583
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8407768
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/StoryCloud/pseuds/StoryCloud
Summary: "The plushies hate the night shift just as much as you do."





	

**Author's Note:**

> This little plot bunny appeared years ago after the first initial game released. I was skeptic of the franchise until a re-watch rekindled my love for the initial game and concepts, so here it is - a long one-shot centered around an Idea I had about the Plushies. And when I say 'plushies' don't be fooled; its not meant to be cutesie.

"...and keep looking at those cameras..."

A whirl of static, and frantic flickering in its wake.

The voice on the telephone was as muffled and painfully cheery as ever. Sometimes, he wanted to throw the recorder against the wall, but he never went through with that threat.

“The plushies hate the night shift just as much as you do, trust me. I first noticed during the _day_ shift - gotta tidy up the merchandise, you know? There’s a lot of them, heck if this company made anything new nowadays, it would be those lil’ on-counter toys. “

_Be-beep, Left light._

It was true. They make the money; the whole enterprise is built towards children in that age where they can’t get through a store without buying something for the sake of it. A lot of heckled parents, already having their wills beaten by loud music, sugary air and greasy hands, hadn’t the strength to deny their children a cute little Freddy Toy.

 _Sccr. Hall Camera_.

"When I worked in that office, I saw that the plushies tended to fall off the shelves sometimes, specifically the little Foxy one. Like I said, the main money maker aside from cheap parents booking parties is the merchandise, so the narrow shelves can’t hold all of those cute little guys. Anyway, the Foxy Plushie stayed there, sprawled out on the floor between Pirate Cove and the hall, and for a moment I could’ve sworn that it was shaking. Which, you know, is impossible, but these cameras a little buggy so I guess the footage likes to mess with you."

_Be-Beep. Lights._

"About a week later I noticed a Chica toy had been stuffed under the tables, you know the ones with the sheets? Just a little leg poking out. I guess the cleanup crew got lazy or some kid forgot their toy while crawling about under there. Anyway, I went to put It back on the front line of the shelves, and when I checked the cameras later I saw that the toy I picked up (Stain its beak, that’s not going to sell well, is it?) Had somehow managed to squeeze itself to the back, more out of sight....”

_Pirate Cove. Check doors._

“I dunno about the other two. I’m pretty sure there’s got to be a Bonnie or uh, Freddy toy around the place trying to pretend it’s none there, so, if you ever see ‘em while going to your shift, remember to tuck them back into the shelves. If these little guys were alive, I doubt they’d like to meet Freddy’s gang. Big guys, heck, they’d probably be scared of you, too...”

 _Clatter._ Kitchen.

“Uh, I don’t like the Chica one much, though. It never sold ‘cause of that stain, and dolls can get creepy at night. So yeah. Don’t take ‘em in the office with you – that’s against company policy.”

Mike lifted the tablet closer to his face, aware that his breath was fogging up the images on the reflective surface. His eyes flickered left, right, each door light checked as he couldn’t find Bonnie, or Chica, in any of the cameras, and the clatter from the kitchen had been more than half a minute ago. Swallowing, he checked Pirate Cove. Foxy’s single eye was visible by the mere reflective glint the light had on the animatronics pupil.

Next camera – Bonnie was back in the dining area, near all the chairs. Music was playing absently somewhere in the dark, and the kitchen was alive with noisy rummaging again. Freddy hadn’t left the stage yet. It wasn’t even halfway point yet.

Mike had little thought to spare; every reflex and every blink was focused on the task at hand, the shake of his hands and heartbeat. But even so, human nature had flaws, so when he found himself making ‘extra’ time, He found his eyes trailing towards the camera of the hall that a certain pirate animatronics had taken to speeding down.

In the faint glow of the camera light, his eyes strained to spot it – a little toy, lying dejectedly on the floor, little body just poking around the corner. Looking very much like it was trying to be a still as possible. Had the former guard not pointed it out, He’d never have seen it.

He checked Pirate Cove. Foxy’s snout was poking out. Kitchen. Chica had moved.

The doors snapped shut as the chicken animatronics appeared in the hall directly outside the office. A bead of sweat ran down Mike’s brow.

He wasn’t a sadist by any means, but some part of him couldn’t help but think back of the Foxy Toy and say: _Sucks to be you._

A shadow on the wall told him more than a glance would, and the left door went clanking down to join its twin. Both here, real drain on power. That’s what he got for taking a moment’s pause.

“Remember, if they can see you, _don’t move.”_

Chica could see him, and he found himself staring intently, and almost stone-still, at the camera. Fox was almost completely out now; Bonnie would need to gang way if he was going to sprint. Freddy was off stage. Mike’s heart rate started picking up again; all four of them were on the move. His eyes glanced at the clock – quarter to five.

Bonne was gone, Chica, too. Mike knew what was coming.

He decided to get it over with.

He opened the door.

Foxy’s footprints, shuffling and quick, came running down the hall. He was really going for it tonight. It seemed the old animatronic had it out for him more than the others. Mike slammed the door shut just before he could get there, and the familiar slam of the pirate’s arms on the metallic surface reverberated though the entire building. Mike almost felt the tremor in his teeth.

Then, silence. He glanced at the cameras. Foxy had stalked back to his cove. The little toy had been knocked on its side during his run, now it was facing the camera; little eyes glittering in the barely-existent light. Mike shuddered and flicked to the next image, opening the door absently mindedly.

Kitchen, stage, dining room; there’s Chica. Breath in, breath out, next camera, lights –

His finger went to the button, but instead of the familiar buzz, he heard a curt clicking sound.

Every bone in his body became a ton heavier; his skin crawled with icy sweat. His finger pressed against the button again, but the clicking sound replied, almost forcefully. Mike couldn’t blink, couldn’t get his lungs to work.

Sweat soaked into his hair.

He heard a footstep, heavy, slow, and the edge of Bonnie’s face sliding into the office light –

CRASH.

Mike leaped backwards. The chair tipped and he hit the floor, his terror catching his scream in his throat. But no pain came, no hands grabbed. In fact...he was still alive. He lay there, winded, as he numbly realised in the back of his head, that the crash hadn’t come from inside the office, but somewhere down the hall.

Bonnie had withdrawn. And the clock struck 6.

Mike felt his body deflate. He’d survived. That had been a stupidly close call, but he’d made it. The power hadn’t shut down, but he’d almost forgotten to check the lights. Stupid; he mentally kicked himself a good three times. He got to his feet, mutely setting the chair back upright, and stumbled down the hall. Summer sunlight was speaking through the windows. The halls seemed instantly more open, less imposing.

And he saw what caused the noise. A whole stack of party hats and toys had been tumbled over. Mike felt sorry for the cleaners, but not as sorry as he did for himself.

Then he saw it. A glass plate, lying broken amidst the mess. It couldn’t have been left there. By the look of it, and the angle in which the pile tipped, someone could’ve thrown it.

Mike looked over his shoulder and saw the little Foxy Toy lying against the hall wall, stooped over so its nose touched the floor. He picked it up.

It was heavy for such a cuddly toy, rather pudgy compared to its counterpart, and – now that he looked – missing the eye patch.

Mike eyed the broken pile.

Then he dusted the dirt off the little toy, and put him back on the shelf.

...

Imagine his surprise when he walked through the kitchens to get to his next shift, and he happened to knock into some pots. Now, it wasn’t out of the question that he’d do that – the kitchens were rather tight-knit and not very roomy, so apparently during the day the working noises could be heard underneath the party music. Maybe that was why it was cranked so high sometimes.

But it wasn’t the loud sound of clattering pots that startled him, no – it was that someone had stuffed a toy under one of the pans at the side of the sink. Squishing it into a ball. It laid back-down on the floor, looking up at him. With the wide eyes and open beak, the toy looked absolutely _appalled_ and affronted at his transgression.

He was about to pick it up, but his hand froze when he saw the stain on its beak. Proud and as bolt as brass. An orange blotch on an otherwise perfect toy. The cupcake sewed to its hand look a little leery, too, so he straightened up and booked it to his office.

The shift began sooner than he could be prepared for. Chica was on the move instantly, and he couldn’t help but feel it was his own fault for taking away some of the _opportunity to knock things over._

It was Wednesday, so things were hectic. Bonnie seemed hell bent on remaining in the closer corridor, as if the distraction from the night before had been a personal challenge. Mike could’ve sworn the animatronic stared at the camera a lot more than usual. Chics behaved normally, however, and Foxy as antsy as ever. Freddy remained on stage.

Flick. Flick. Flick. His throat dry, Mike checked the lights, thanking the heavens that they pressed inward with a buzz like they were supposed to.

A loud, high-pitched squeak interrupted the usual progression at about five. Mike almost fainted. It wasn’t just a loud sound, it was an unfamiliar one and that sent him to the doors, locking them without checking the lights and wasting precious power. It took him ten seconds to calm himself and actually check to see if anything was outside his doors. There wasn’t. Bonnie was storage room, Fox was peering through the curtain, Freddy in his usual spot...and Chica had gone right back into the dining area.

Mike swallowed, his throat tight, and throughout the next hour he continuously checked the right halls, where the sound had come from. It happened so quickly, he couldn’t possibly have time to pinpoint it. The man on the phone hadn’t mentioned any noises. Maybe he was losing his mind, after all.

He laughed.

And covered his mouth.

Mike listened, waiting for some kind of repercussion, but got none. He’d never made a sound, aside from the occasion yelp or gasp. Luckily, it didn’t seem to break the tentative rule set he’d memorised thus far.

He had another close call that night. 6 AM came just as the power shut off, and the doors opened. At least he didn’t have to see the lights blinking in the dark.

He was going back through the kitchen when he stepped on something, and that same noise thrashed his eardrums. Mike leaped and crashed head-first into a counter. Several pots fell around in a crescendo of slams. By the time his head stopped throbbing, the sun was coming through the hall lights, and he saw what he’d stood on.

The little Chicken Toy. Really. It’s a chicken. It shouldn’t squeak.

He picked it up, hand shaking so badly the little duck looked like it was having a fit. He practically staggered back into the next area, plonking it back amongst its brethren.

Someone ought to fix up that stain.

...

The next night, when he had five minutes before the dreaded shift, he got out some cleaner and rubbed off the spaghetti stain. No one had bought the toy.

While he worked, the little Foxy slipped off his shelf and landed face-down on the floor with a dejected _smack._

...

Mike wondered if his opinion on the animatronics would be less biased if he hadn’t worked this shift. If he’d have liked these creepy abominations as a kid. But every time he had that argument, the one brewing behind his eyelids as he flickered from every static-filled image to the next, he always concluded with this: No. They were terrifying. Their eyes, their teeth. How this establishment was still breathing by the time he’d got here was beyond him.

Flick. Flick. Flick. 2a, 3a, kitchen. No noise. They hadn’t moved yet, so he kept flicking back between the stage and Pirate Cove. Foxy was already out and about it seemed. Back to the stage. He couldn’t afford to look at the pirate fox for too long, it always ended in a loss of power that his nerves couldn’t take right now.

Back to the stage. He eyed the animatronics, looking for some kind of sign that one of them had moved, so he’d know which one of these creepy sods to expect and _what the hell._

He’d never looked too closely at the music instruments in the corner of the camera; the banjo, the microphone, Chica’s props. But now that he looked he saw another plush; a little purple one hiding oh-so-discreetly inside the banjo. Behind the strings.

What a diabolical hiding place.

Mike checked Pirate Cove (Foxy’s still there.) Bonnie had moved. But his mind refused to veer to the demonic rabbit for the next few seconds. He analysed his thoughts. Why did he call it a ‘hiding spot’? That’s what it seemed liked, but who would stuff a toy inside a banjo? It must have taken effort to get such a plump toy in there, and _care_ not snap the strings –

Beep.

Bonnie appeared outside the door.

_SLAM._

All further musings on the bunny toy forgotten for the night.

...

The Bonnie Toy had gone by the time the shift ended.

...

For the fifth time that week, Mike had to reposition the poor Foxy Doll back on his spot, and wipe the Little Chica’s beak clean. The Bonnie Toy was nowhere to be seen. He hated spending too long near the animatronics before a shift. He tried to separate those realities; those six hours verses the rest of life, so he could keep his sanity. So he could contain the terror, the questions, the sheer madness of it all. So being near them longer than necessary was stomach-turning.

He hurried to the office with five minutes to go, and barely noticed his own eyes scanning the place for a out-of-place Freddy Doll.

He found none. In fact, the little toys had decided to take five tonight. It was Friday. So that meant the cards were really on the table. Freddy was about, and if Mike heard so much as a peer of laughter, the doors went down. Bonnie kept showing up outside the door, leaning to the side to peer directly in at him whenever the lights lit.

Mike was keeping an eye on Chica, positioned just outside the door with her head lolling to one side, when he heard a familiar padding down the hall.

Shit shit shit shit _shit shit –_

The door fell mid-screech. Mike had recoiled, his seat rolling back, as Foxy hammered violently on the door. He knew he couldn’t get in, but he did it anyway. Thwack, thwack, thwack, just for the sake of it. Mike held his breath through the pause that came afterwards, and cautiously opened the door again.

Something laughed, and Mike put both doors down.

That, my friends, is when he noticed the power was at 10%. And that it was only five.

He opened the doors. He checked Foxy one last time. Shit. Shit. Oh dear God. He’d screwed up. Cold sweat was running down the small of his back and he found himself too shell-shocked to even scream. How could he have missed that? How could he have not been paying attention? On a Friday no less!

Those stupid toys –

_Oh God._

Chica was outside the door. He had no choice. He closed it, feeling physically sick. He was going to hurl any moment now and –

Bonnie was at the other door.

He closed it.

Five percent.

He was praying now. _Please, God, don’t let me die like this. I don’t want to die. Not now. Let me get by just this once and I’ll never slack off again, I’ll quit this time I swear on my life._

“Hi.”

The ragged breaths that filled the office stopped short. The fan was the only thing that continued its existence in the eternal pause that came next. During that time, Mike was fairly aware that his mind was wrapping itself would that word. Hi. A small, high, almost warbling voice. But clear and ringing, coming from the Dining Area.

By instinct, Mike checked the camera. No one was there. Certainly no child.

Bonne and Chica had gone. He opened the doors, swallowing hard. Still had forty minutes to go. He was still utterly doomed.

He didn’t dare check the cameras.

“Hello.”

That voice again. This time, he went completely still and listened as the cluttering in the kitchen came to a stop. Whatever it was, it had caught the animatronics’ attention.

Half past five.

“Hi.” That sounded like it came from the storage room. Bonnie and Chica hadn’t come near; Foxy hadn’t sprung, Freddy wasn’t about. One percent. Sorry, little voice, he thought numbly. But I’m about to die.

The lights shut off and he breathed out, a loud, shuddering breath. His eyes stung. He was ready to break out in ugly sobs right there on the floor. Stupid, stupid idiot, staying here in this god forsaken job like this –

“Hello!”

Louder. Through the dark he heard it, and he held his breath again, straining to hear. His whole mind came to a standstill, focusing madly on the silence.

Nothing came to the doors. Please, whatever it is (he didn’t question logic, not in here) please keep doing whatever you’re doing. His watch was invisible in the dark.

Footsteps down the hall. Mike sank down. The desk? Too small to hide under. In the corner? A few step’s space could give him time, the chair between him and whatever hellish fate awaited him could add more seconds, anything, anything that would –

“Hi.”

Dining Room again, quieter, further away. It sounded almost persistent. Mike almost laughed again, in his maddened state of terror. He wasn’t worried for the voice, really. They’d never find the source.

It had a pretty good hiding place.

...

Never before had Mike appreciated how it felt to wake up on Saturday morning and just be able to acknowledge that he was alive. On that weekend, he visited his parents. He shaved. He showered until he almost drowned himself, let alone the germs. He got his laundry done; he went out for a coffee and chattered happily to an old couple. Yes, old lady, it was a good day to be alive. He slept in all Sunday morning, and watched a cheesy soap opera.

But by the end of that weekend, the dread came creeping up on him again between the arms of his old alarm clock.

...

Sometimes, Mike saw things. Maybe it was the nerves, or even sleep deprivation. But sometimes he saw letters, and an unfamiliar version of Freddy lying in his office.

...

The Chica Doll had another stain on it; this time on the bib. Defiant to the end. The Bonnie Toy had chosen a new hiding place up on the fans above. Mike pretended not to notice.

What he did notice was the Foxy Toy falling off his shelf again and crashing into a misplaced dustbin. He was hard on himself sometimes.

There was no Freddy Toy to be found.

_..._

He was asked to come in early to ‘clean up’. Because apparently he’d left a ‘mess for the cleaners’ last time.  He wasn’t willing to contradict them and say that the mess and the superfluous stains were the work of some toys, or that the piles of plates tipping over last Sunday had been a complete accident, and he’d been meters away when it happened.

When he wandered into the Dining Area, fixating his gaze on the pile of dirty plates in the centre. (There’s no way any toy, or himself, was responsible for this...) he spotted the Foxy Toy lying on the gift shop counter, all on his own beside a music box. Left open. Some kids must have been playing with him. What did they do, make the Little Foxy into a ballerina?

He laughed half-hearted at his own joke and cleaned up the mess, ignoring Freddy and his Gang with all his might. The later it go, the more he felt like something was watching him.

Out of habit, he went to put Poor Patch-less Foxy Toy up on his shelf, but his hand hovered over the open music box.

He wondered what tune it played. So he twisted the key around. A simple melody began to play, one he didn’t recognise. He set the box back over the counter and placed Little Foxy on his shelf as it drilled itself out.

He detoured into the kitchen and fished a certain appalled-looking chicken doll out of the freezer.

...

Mike wilfully ignored the sign spelling out ‘It’s Me’ in bold letters on Foxy’s sign. He had bigger things to worry about

...

The next week was...moderate in a sense. But then came the beginning of September. Nights were getting longer, the halls chillier. Less parties. School was back in. So the animatronics had far less to do during the day.

They started moving the moment two o’clock rolled in. Mike was startled by the change. When he changed over the cameras to the storage rooms all he saw was Bonnie’s face, and the tiny white dots in the centre of his eyes. With an involuntary shudder, he went to check the door light for Chica. It was only Monday. This had to be a fluke.

Pirate Cove, check Pirate Cove...

Foxy was already looking out. Mike gave a huff, his fear delayed by a stab of frustration. This wasn’t the rules, this wasn’t faire. The shadow-coated pirate was staring directly at the camera and the out-of-order sign had been...written over?

He put the tablet down and checked the light.

Bonnie.

Door closed.

A muffled laugh in the distance. Other door shut. Mike took a second to inhale deeply and breath out before lifting up the tablet.

“Dum, dum, dum diddy-diddy...”

He chewed uneasily on the inside of his cheek. He hated the animatronics need to amuse himself pre-attack. Chica was at the bathrooms, Bonnie gone. They were really moving fast tonight, why on earth –

Next camera. Something tall, red and bulky was speeding down the hall. Mike dove for the button and the door closed, once again, in the nick of time. Foxy gave the door a good few hits before stalking off. Only 2AM.

“Hello.”

It never ceased to make him start. But at least this time he didn’t fall back in his chair. Back-up, good, if the voice just...

Mike frowned at himself, skin on his brow crinkling. He’d lost it. His friend Bob was right. He didn’t need a beer; he needed a therapist and a cats can and possibly an exorcist. Freddy was off the stage already, and dread was beginning to pool in his gut. Mike was actually glad for that – he wouldn’t get complacent this time, even with the voice drawing Bonnie and Chica’s attention away. He’d figured it out – Those two would get distracted, Foxy wouldn’t react, and Freddy didn’t fall for it.

“Hello.”

And the little voice only spoke up when they got too close. He checked the lights and slammed the door in Chica’s gaping face.

A soft ‘thump’ echoed from the opposite hall, and he knew the Little Foxy had fallen from his shelf.

_Remember, if they can see you, don’t move._

Mike shifted in his seat.

He checked the toilets and found Chica there. The door opened and Mike chewed on his lip; the inside of his cheek was swelling. Bonnie was idling around in the Dining Area, but his eyes were locked on the camera. It wasn’t like the animatronics would attack toys. And anyway, it was...toys. Why was he _concerned?_

Well, if anyone had a hearth, they wouldn’t want to see a cute little toy be torn apart, but wouldn’t he take that over his own face being pressed into a wireframe any day?

Foxy was out. This time, his pose had changed. Mike jerked in his seat; the wheels giving a horrible creak that seemed far too loud to be tolerated. The pirate was leaning downwards, slightly; hooked arm pushing the curtain aside, as if he was looking at something on the floor. Intently. Mike’s hand shivered as he checked the hall between Pirate Cove and the Office.

Little Foxy was lying in plain sight, staring at the ceiling. Completely still.

“Hello.”

Mike went for the doors.

Click-click-click.

He didn’t dare check the time.

“Hi.”

Click-click-click.

“ ** _Hello.”_** Louder.

_It wasn’t working._

A loud squeak rang from the kitchen – and several pots and pans cluttered to the floor. The doors slid shut and Mike breathed out, unaware that he’d been holding his breath until then. It was four. He could do this. He could do this. He snatched up the tablet and checked Pirate Cove. Foxy was leaning out a bit more, arm extended.

Storage room. Bonnie was lifting...up a box, as if looking under it. Mike’s brow furrowed in confusion. He’d never done that before.

It continued. The voice, the squeak (It had to be the toys, his mind told him, though whatever dignity he had left wouldn’t let him admit it) and himself playing ping-pong ball with the animatronics. Foxy didn’t move much. He edged ever so slowly out of his curtains, and Freddy appeared preoccupied now.

Mike checked the hall near Pirate Cove, and saw Foxy had closed his single hand around his toy counterpart’s leg.

Somewhere, a music box began playing. Fast.

Mike felt unease dance up his back. This was new, and new meant _bad._

He checked the hall in which Foxy was still loitering, and saw the animatronic was now holding up the little toy as if eyeing it intently, and the dread festering in his stomach increased.

The cameras went out. Black screens all around. Mike shut the doors, cursing under his breath. He heard a scramble coming from down the hall and he was certain Foxy had approached.

The cameras were going nuts.

Mike braced himself, and his ears, from the familiar pounding on the door. But instead, he heard a little tap-tap-tap. Confusion took over him in an almost drug-like wave. Tap-tap-tap, small and frantic. Then, silence. The cameras stopped jamming. Foxy was back in his cove, Chica was in the bathroom hall and Bonnie had now returned to the Dining Room.

And Mike found himself hesitating more than ever in opening the left door again.

When he did, he saw the Foxy Toy lying outside the door, face down.

...

Come 6 AM, The Little Foxy sat on the desk behind the fan, slouching peacefully.

...

A month later, and Christmas was coming up. The corporate didn’t bother putting up decorations. Summer was their time, not winter. Mike had to deal with chills as well as extra creaks and whistles, but least the cold kept him alert. Frozen fingers weren’t as welcome.

The animatronics seized up sometimes, it seems, and Mike took some vengeful pleasure in seeing them slightly bent out of posture. But that didn’t quell his unease whenever he checked the camera and found Bonnie was lifting something up, or appeared to be looking under a table. The noises in the kitchen grew ever more frequent.

The ringing greetings from the voice came like clockwork. The music box never played again.

Foxy was more and more active. Every time Mike checked the Cove, he’d see Foxy glaring through the parting in the curtain. He attacked the office a lot more, and the slams were curter, like he wanted to get back to his Cove to restart the process as soon as possible. When Chica wasn’t in the kitchen and Bonnie wasn’t looking through different spaces, their eyes were staring straight at the cameras.

Little Foxy stayed on his desk and ‘company policy’ had nothing to say. It was actually pretty comforting, though Mike felt incredibly childish for taking refuge in the company of a woebegone toy.

Because they started up so quickly nowadays, Mike barely saw Freddy, and no, the horrible implications weren’t lost on him. His mind made up all kinds of lovely scenarios for him. Sometimes he was sure Freddy had gotten into the office already and was just waiting to pounce, or he was somehow always in a blind spot, just barely a few feet away.

He hated not knowing.

...

It was a Monday, and it seemed things were going back to normal. Or whatever version of ‘normal’ there was in this place. The animatronics built up their activity gradually over the week per usual; maybe they’d hit burn out.

Things progressed normal that Friday, too, and Mike had time to adjust. Chica had finally let the kitchens fall into silence and was idling about near the toilets again; Bonnie in the Dining Room, standing up straight. He just had to keep an eye on Foxy and...

_Pound, pound, pound –_

And Freddy.

He was tried. This week had been gruelling in the sense that the hours were more suspenseful than hectic, and ticked by slower than usual. His eyes stung, his limbs ached, and he wondered if he was coming down with something.

The voice that seemed to hide in the walls was quieter, since he kept the gang at bay by himself lately. The squeak in the kitchen was even less frequent, and with the little Foxy Toy sitting in his office, there wasn’t a telltale ‘frump’ of it falling face-down in the hall anymore.

A throaty laugh broke the monotony, and Mike reacted quickly. Freddy was about.

He shut the door on the right side just to be safe, and glanced down at the cameras. The fan whirled back and forth before stuttering into silence.

Mike flicked on the lights, left, right, checked Pirate Cove – Foxy was peering at him quite hatefully from within. He frowned, scratching at his neck with a shaky free hand, and opened the door.

Blurry images danced in front of his stinging eyes. It’s nothing, he told himself. Nothing at all. There was still a line in what he’ll believe. It had been moved back a few meters, but still...

‘ _It’s Me.’_ Writing overplayed on his vision. He blinked and checked the cameras; Bonnie and Chica, the dynamic duo, were flanking him either side, but they weren’t at the doors yet. Something was bothering him.

He checked everything again, but nothing. Freddy’s laugh was echoing somewhere on the right and he shut the door, feeling ill. He rolled his chair back.

He almost screamed.

The – other Freddy – sitting like an empty skin strewn against the desk. It flopped forward, soundless.

Mike staggered out of his chair.

Then, a soft, mangled sort of giggle rang out from an unknown place, and it vanished. Mike breathed out. It was like his entire body was trying to turn itself inside out with the exhale.

And then he almost gagged.

Under the desk, hidden by cobwebs, only visible now that he was lying on the floor, was a Freddy Plushie. It was lying lazily against the wall under a blanket of dust, glass eyes on him, foggy and unblinking. Mike didn’t even notice the clock sound off the 6AM alarm.

The little bear didn’t instil the same kind of horror that the other creatures in here did. It didn’t light up an odd fondness, like the little Foxy. It was also insane, he told himself stiffly, to even consider these things as anything more than toys.

But with how things were going, he couldn’t afford to think otherwise.

When he returned the next day, Little Foxy was back on his shelf, and the Freddy Toy was gone. The soft calls of ‘Hello’ and ‘Hi’ were rare after that, as were the squeaks from the kitchen. Routine returned.

The differing giggles, high and low, resonated to counter each other in the dark.

Sometimes a music box would play ‘Pop Goes the Weasel’ in a maddened speed, and Little Foxy would appear outside his door and spend the next few days as an Office Decoration before going back to his shelf.

Foxy remained the most persistent. Sometimes Mike would catch Bonnie in mid-search, peering under things or looking in crannies. He didn’t see the Freddy Toy again.

It was Monday tomorrow. Another day. Another week would soon begin. 


End file.
